


Disown Me

by orphan_account



Series: Disown Me [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Hogwarts Founders Era, M/M, ableism tw, alcohol tw, it's only one scene and it's mostly helga and godric's fault, kind of, most everything is helga and godric's fault
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-15
Updated: 2014-12-28
Packaged: 2018-03-01 13:47:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 18,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2775263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's almost certain Godric didn't expect this either, especially because this was the year Salazar Slytherin was to become a Man in the eyes of his parents and Be Wedded to some snobby aristocrat and Make Many Enemies.</p>
<p>A story in which Salazar frets, Godric saves the day, Rowena grinds her teeth out of her skull and Helga merrily breaks the law.</p>
<p>Act 1.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I Think I Originally Titled This With Lyrics To A Fall Out Boy Song, And I Don't Own Those Either

**Author's Note:**

> This is not intended to be remotely historically accurate.

In the year 970 A.D., you could close your eyes and spin, and you'd end up pointing, no matter what direction, at a hormonal teenager. It's the sad trial of a time traveler: whenever you are, there will always be lame, spotty, poser betweeners who are loud and obnoxious and make fun of your clothing. Of the Tanzeda Foundation, it didn't take long to find Godric, as he was the loudest.

To bring up Godric, you'll drag Rowena, Helga, and Salazar in as well, and they'll come, if unenthusiastically. Gryffindor, where dwell the brave at heart, and in that heart, where dwell the three people whom it would simultaneously be both best and worst to put your trust in.

At midnight, on a very cold October evening, Salazar woke up very abruptly. Disoriented, he rolled over and opened his charmed watch, his thoughts still clouded. When it dawned on him that it wasn't yet morning, he groaned slightly, dropped his timepiece back on his nightstand, and rubbed his hands over his face, rolling onto his stomach. Warm flesh met him.

“It's so annoying,” sighed a feminine voice. Salazar bolted upright.

“What is?” A deeper, hoarser voice. Goosebumps sprouted all over Salazar's arms, and he backed up; pressed his spine against the headboard of his bed, squinting to see in the jet-black dormitory. A Tanzeda dormitory single held two people each, as opposed to the dormitory commons, which were reserved for students with peasant backgrounds and held ten. Across the room, Salazar could hear his sole roommate sigh and roll over in his sleep.

“Godric?” Salazar hissed.

“Mm,” said Godric in cursory acknowledgment.

“His hair is still impeccable, even when he's sleeping,” continued Helga in a low voice. “I asked Rowena to find me a charm that'd keep my hair in perfect order at all hours of the day. There isn't one.” If she lived in a modern time period, Helga would likely add a comment about Salazar's irritatingly superior genetics.

“What are you two doing here?” Salazar whispered harshly. “Hufflepuff, you're not supposed to be in the boys' rooms, it's indecent – ”

“Come here,” interjected Godric.

Hesitating, Salazar inched closer to his friends, who, he could now tell, were sat at the foot of the bed. “What is this?” he repeated.

“Rowena found a secret passage in one of the cellars.”

Rowena Ravenclaw was, in addition to a student, an apprentice of one of the teachers. Over the summer, she lived with her guardian at the school, and, as a result, knew far more about Tanzeda's interior than any other student. It came in handy twice a week on average when one of the foursome (Godric, usually) accidentally unleashed the monster of the week and needed a quick escape down one of the passageways.

“And you want me to explore it with you,” Salazar said flatly. His roommate stirred again across the chamber, and he lowered his voice. “In the middle of the night. Godric, you'll end up falling off the school.” As the school steadily levitated fifty feet off its island every evening at ten o' clock, this was plausible. “I don't want any part of it.”

The bed creaked. “It'll be exciting,” said Helga. “You know Rowena doesn't agree to this sort of thing often.”

“No.”

“He's not coming,” Helga reported to Godric, who was sitting immediately next to her.

There was silence for a moment. Salazar could feel warm breath on his ear. “Salazar. You know you want to investigate the creepy insect-ridden tunnel Rowena found in the dungeon. She said there were snakes. You like snakes, don't you?”

“Get off me!”

A sleepy murmur from across the room. Helga swore under her breath, and half the weight at the foot of Salazar's bed lifted. “If you're coming,” Godric murmured directly into Salazar's ear, “get your cloak and follow us.” His mouth was suddenly withdrawn, leaving only cold air in its place. Salazar squinted. To all but the most experienced observer, both budding criminal minds had vanished from the room.

He cast his eyes up to heaven. It was always Godric who got the four of them in trouble, but, in some sort of intense vicious cycle, it was always Godric who could convince Salazar to come along as the reckless plots were put in motion. Salazar slid out of bed and felt around on the floor for his boots and cloak.

“I knew it,” Helga whispered through the darkness.

Salazar snatched his wand and knife from under his pillow and crossed quickly to the chamber door. He opened it without a word. The corridor outside was dim, and he could see Godric's stupid hair framing his jawbone by the light of the faint torches on the walls. “Is Rowena waiting for us?” Salazar said, keeping his voice soft.

“Yes, she's in the cellar where she found the secret tunnel,” answered Helga. Salazar shut the door slowly; these doors had a tendency to creak. Helga beckoned, her hand covered by a glove. Salazar wondered what part of her body he'd brushed when he woke up. He wondered if it had been Godric's, and promptly sped back from the precipice off which that train of thought was dangling.

Helga darted down a flight of stairs, closely followed by the two boys. Salazar shivered – apart from the heavy cloak, he was still wearing thin pajamas, and it was late autumn. His hands were freezing, so he rubbed them together; he didn't want to draw attention from Tanzeda's wards by warming his hands with magic.

“How did Rowena find it?” he asked Godric.

“Earlier, in study period, she went to the dungeon,” Godric said. “Her guardian lets her keep books down there, and she accidentally walked into the wall while spacing out a circular formula for arithmancy.”

“That sounds like her,” Salazar muttered. Then, louder: “I have a test in the morning, you know.”

“I'm sure you'll do well on it,” Godric said. “Nothing like a little expedition into forbidden areas to get the blood pumping for an exam.”

“You are unbelievable.”

Helga shushed them.

The dungeon was a small labyrinth of different cellars, mostly unused. The heavy stone door ground unpleasantly in its granite frame as Godric maneuvered it open. “Ravenclaw?” he called softly, and motioned his two fellow delinquents inside as he wrenched the door closed again.

“Over here.”

Salazar picked his way around the clutter in the direction of Rowena's voice. A rat scurried out from under a crate, and he shouted and leapt backward. Rowena's wand hand flicked out of the shadows and neatly caught him in the air with a nonverbal spell. Walking out into the open, her heart-shaped face neatly framed by a cover of thick, black, wavy hair, she struck an imposing figure: just taller than Helga, and the youngest of the four, she carried herself with a certain poise that was impressive given the reclusive, shy tendencies she displayed with the general public.

“Nice, Salazar,” she said. “The door is over here.”

The entrance turned out to be a low gap in the wall. Rowena demonstrated how a stone tile could be fitted securely into the opening, concealing it from view.

“When exactly did you find this, again?” asked Salazar.

“Earlier.” Rowena abruptly dropped to her knees and wriggled her upper body into the hole. When she spoke again, her voice was magnified, like it was echoing through a cavern. “Careful. There's an immediate drop to the left, so lean right.” As her feet vanished through the gap, Godric cleared his throat.

“That's nice,” he said, “but I don't know if I'll fit.” As his shoulders were broader than the hole was wide, it was a valid concern. Salazar, the slimmest next to Rowena, hadn't even considered the problem; he was already kneeling in front of the hole.

Rowena's face appeared in the gap again. “We could widen the hole?” she suggested uncertainly.

“Move,” said Salazar. Rowena grimaced and moved out of view. Salazar stuck his head through the hole and crawled forward, banking to the right, and although he was forced to fold his elbows and knees in unpleasant ways, he emerged into a deep stone cave, covered with wet, green algae and various cocktails of mysterious dripping fluid. He could see what Rowena meant; there was a place where the cave dipped sharply downward directly to the left of the entrance. She was sitting, arms around her knees, with her back to one wall of the cave.

“There's all kinds of passageways branching off of this place.” Her eyes were luminous in the dark. “I had no idea any of it was here.”

Godric was attempting to fold himself through the hole, despite his earlier apprehension, and Salazar paused for a moment to watch his progress. The older boy made a hissing sound and clutched his wrist, but clambered safely into the cave, toppling over when he hit the floor. Helga called, “You all right in there?” from the cellar.

“Yes,” Godric said. “I only scraped my hand.”

“Is it bad?”

“No.”

“Hell, Godric, you'd say that if your leg were broken. I'm coming in there.”

Helga had a much easier time fitting through the hole than the two boys, given her disregard for looking cool at every second and her lack of long, gangly limbs. She emerged more or less intact, and said, “If we were any four of Tanzeda's first-years, I'd bet you that would be much easier. Oh, this is beautiful.”

Salazar looked around the cavern. It wasn't up to his current standards of beauty, but he had to admit it had a certain aesthetic, with its rivulets of water pouring through tiny streams worn into the cave and the lush plant life growing between the cracks in the stone. “How can something like this be here?” he wondered aloud. “The school's floating fifty feet in the air right now – it's not like this is a natural cave.”

“It could have been, once,” said Rowena. “I think that when the school started to float, it tore off pieces of the world with it, and this cave came along for the ride.”

“What you're saying is that it's not actually fixed to the school,” said Helga. “It's just a part of the environment that was pulled out of the ground when Tanzeda began to levitate and is now only stuck to the bottom of the school by sheer force of will? What if it falls off, then?”

“It won't,” said Godric. “Tanzeda rises by engulfing itself in a massive charm every night that enables it to levitate, and that means the entire school, including the chunk of debris we're sitting in right now, is affected by the charm.”

Salazar looked at him. “You say things like this, but then you get absolutely atrocious test scores,” he said.

“Shut it and let's go explore this cave, Slytherin.”


	2. Crash Headlong Into The Introduction Of All The Original Characters

The uniform of a Tanzeda student is a very deep wine red suit, with tails and a black shirt, for all genders. It is only strictly required to be worn at assemblies and when visiting the villages on the mainland. Outerwear is a black cloak, gloves, and sensible black shoes or boots in cold weather. The wealthier students had previously lobbied to change the color of the suit, since red didn't work with their complexion, or they disliked the color. These students were Salazar's crowd.

His parents had a very clear image of what a Slytherin heir should be: a dignified young man, powerful in magic and academically talented, with several rich young ladies on his arm at all times. Instead, they got Salazar, who, despite having the makings of an aristocrat, spent much of his time chasing after a boy who, in his early childhood, used to smear river mud all over himself and his friends and scare the neighbors by pretending to be bog monsters, and two girls who were far more criminally inclined than girls in that era were condoned to be.

Nevertheless, when the Tanzeda students were allowed to travel to the mainland and visit the clusters of tiny wizarding villages through the coastline, Salazar made a rudimentary effort to stick with the rich ones, in case any news spread to his family. He had four not-friends in this respect. They were polar opposites of Godric, Helga, and Rowena; literally, polar, in the sense that every motion they made was the embodiment of ice, and they spoke in chilled, glittering tones.

There was de Caut, and Denbaus, de Petra Cava and aCrestian, and they were all highborn purebloods, pretentious and sour-faced; Yspan aCrestian was the clear leader, with no shred of doubt. They were swathed in scarves and hats and high boots when Salazar tracked them down the morning after discovering the cave in the dungeons. It wasn't even cold outside, but in late October, the air was dry and there was a bitter wind flowing over the island.

Rhys Denbaus had never let Salazar down, not when it came to illicitly marketing exam answers, and after exploring the dungeon cave for hours, Salazar wasn't prepared for his alchemy quiz by any standards. He fell into step with Denbaus and the other three, who were all amiably chatting about household politics at their homes.

Katerina de Petra Cava coughed politely into her fist. “It's not as if Daddy's going to give me the estate apropos of nothing,” she said pointedly. “It'll go to my brother if I'm not careful, but I think I can convince Daddy if I get Mummy's approval. Alvredus is younger than me, so I deserve the lawful ownership.”

“That's poor planning,” said aCrestian.

“I can't exactly chop his head off. I would, though, if Mummy let us have weapons in the house.”

Salazar wondered what Godric was doing.

“Your brother or your father?” asked de Caut.

“My brother,” de Petra Cava said, sweetly. And then, “Slytherin.” Turn. Half step.

Denbaus tilted his head to the side. “You here for the cheat sheet, Slytherin?”

Salazar wasn't intimidated. He knew how to handle these people, and he knew it would be clear suicide to let an ounce of fear prick through his skin. “Yes.”

“Which one.” An invitation, wafting, not commanding. Salazar picked up the note in Denbaus's voice and responded as if it were an intricate dance.

“Alchemy. You have the class as well, don't you? You have to understand how important it is to pass if you want to graduate.” Half turn, lilt on that last _you_ , slight invocation that was engineered to lightly remind Denbaus of that one time he helped him in arithmancy, and dip.

Denbaus grimaced. “Fine, Slytherin.” He beckoned him closer. Salazar shifted to within a foot of the other boy. “Here.” An envelope was slipped, the barest flash of cream, through the air, and tucked into the inside pocket of Salazar's suit. Salazar nodded.

It took him a very short time to memorize the patterns of the ink on the paper.

He was already late to his alchemy test, so he found himself hurrying through the school, breathing out shakily. Encounters with aCrestian's clique always left him cold, and he envisioned Helga's cheery warmth and Rowena's shy, hesitantly sturdy spirit to bring down his heart rate. He did not think about Godric. Salazar slipped into the alchemy classroom, tucking the envelope back into his suit pocket, and took a seat in the back of the class, propping his feet up on the desk and tilting his head back – he valued high marks, and rarely failed to berate himself when he received a low mark on a test, but he would freely admit that he and, for example, Rowena, went about preparing for exams in very different ways.

The chamber door slammed shut. There was a sudden clamor as the rest of Salazar's classmates hastened to pack up their notes.

The previous night, Salazar had accompanied his three friends on an excursion to Tanzeda's darker side. The full adventure had lasted over two hours, and Salazar, panting, his hair plastered to one side of his face, pajamas slicked with damp slime from the cave walls, had returned to his bedroom at exactly three in the morning. He looked around at his classmates now, a tiny, smug pin pricking at the back of his mind, pointing out that the idiots with whom he was confined in a room would never experience Godric Gryffindor nearly breaking their spine by shoving them bodily into a cave wall whilst a giant cave spider beast was in close pursuit.

His feet hit the floor with a thump and he reached forward to receive his test. Maybe the spider incident wasn't anything to be jealous over, in hindsight, but afterward, when Helga'd slung an arm over Godric's shoulder, stretching up on her toes, and Rowena was grinning, her hair wet from crashing to the ground straight into a puddle of stale water, blood in streaks down their fronts, Godric punching Salazar in the shoulder –

The classroom door creaked open. This was unusual, and Salazar wasn't the only one to look up.

A young lady, clearly of high standing, was leaning against the doorway, her shoulders partially obscured by a fur shrug. Behind her, a harried-looking governess lingered, constantly smoothing down her own skirt and switching her weight from heel to toes. The lady herself wasn't wearing the official uniform of Tanzeda, but instead a long, plain black dress. Her lips were very, very red.

“Medguistl Simoneti,” the governess announced in a tremulous voice. “A new student; she's in need of a uniform and a dormitory designation.”

The teacher paused. “Just a moment, please.”

A slight satirical twist in Medguistl's crimson lips, now.

Salazar thought: oh, no.

His parents had informed him that “a young noblewoman will be transferring shortly to your Tanzeda Foundation, as we've arranged a marriage between the two of you”, and Salazar hadn't expected any less from his high-class family. It was still startling to see his wife-to-be, however, even when he'd been warned in advance. There was no question, Medguistl had to be her – Tanzeda rarely had transfer students.

The teacher scorched the whispering class with a single glare. “Quiet, all of you. Begin your test; I'm only giving you this class period to work on it.”

Salazar forced his attention back to the paper in front of him, and reached for a quill, tapping the tip against his teeth.

The test itself wasn't difficult at all. He only had to slide Denbaus's cheat list out of his pocket and into his peripheral vision three times in total, but the constant whispering from his classmates about Medguistl sapped his patience and concentration.

By the next period, he'd forgotten entirely about the new girl's arrival.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Godric and Salazar aren't actually teenagers, but they act like they are.


	3. In Which Rowena and Helga Are Left With a Put-Upon Salazar Slytherin, Not For The Last Time

Break that day was a cacophony of shouts and screams, since a student had managed to conjure a dragon made entirely of fire during their dark arts class and then let it loose in the mess hall, and Salazar walked into lunch and, without a single flicker in his expression, turned around and walked out again. He walked down to the dungeons.

The loose slab that marked the cave's entrance was lying flat on the cellar floor, the gap prominent in the wall. With a murmured charm, Salazar sent his lunch pail floating through the opening, then bent over and squirmed his own way into the cave, like a snake. He summoned the loose stone and drew it into the hole, hiding the entrance from anyone outside.

He found Rowena and Helga sitting cross-legged in the cave's northern hollow. “You'll ruin your uniforms if you do that,” he warned. Helga patted the stone next to her.

“We cleared the ground off first. Come sit with us.” They were both eating. Rowena had a notebook balanced on her knee and was scribbling figures with her dominant hand, a sandwich – or what would be known as a sandwich when the Earl of Sandwich, eight centuries later, first coined the term – clutched, forgotten, in the other. Salazar sat next to Helga, crossing his long legs. Rowena afforded him a curt nod, then went back to writing.

“The new girl,” Helga said to Salazar. “Simoneti, is that her name?”

Salazar nodded. “Soon to be Slytherin.”

Helga grimaced – in sympathy, Salazar thought, though she wasn't highborn, and had no real knowledge of how arranged marriages worked. “Rowena and I saw her in transfig; we got that one quiz passed back today, that's the one – ”

“ – the one I failed,” mumbled Rowena.

“You didn't fail it, love, you got less than full credit,” Helga said gently. “You're getting married, then? Salazar?”

“Yes.” If Helga was at all surprised, she didn't show it; after all, anyone could have easily guessed that an arranged marriage was in his future.

“That's odd, innit? I thought Godric would get married before you, since he's older.”

“Godric has a very different family life than Salazar,” Rowena said, finally looking up from her book. “Damn, I'm useless today. Don't mind me.” She folded her notebook closed and set it, and her lunch, on the cave floor beside her.

“What do you think of her?”

“Medguistl?” Salazar clarified. When Helga nodded, he made a hissing sound between his teeth. “I haven't even spoken to her.”

“I thought she was kind of... cocky,” said Rowena.

“She did look confident. It could have been an act,” Salazar said neutrally. “Most of the teenagers at Tanzeda would eat a new student alive if they showed anything softer than rock.”

“And you'd be one of those teenagers, I suppose.”

Salazar grinned. “Maybe. Where's Godric?”

“Out.”

Twenty-two-year-old students, the oldest Tanzeda supported, were allowed to spend their free time visiting the mainland villages without obtaining official permission. “What's he doing over _there?"_ Salazar asked sullenly.

“Stop being needy,” said Helga, nudging him. “It's lonely and stuffy – being holed up on this island all day. I don't blame him in the slightest for needing a break.”

“Are you getting married to the new girl during this school year?”

Salazar nodded at Rowena, tucking his knees under his chin. “Probably, yes,” he said. “I'll take a week or so out of school. Either that or my parents will have it done over summer break.”

Helga snorted. “'Have it done'. Godric was right about you – you're definitely a romantic, aren't you.”

“What?” Salazar's brow crinkled. “What did Godric say about me? No, never mind. Forget it. He's always saying stupid things he doesn't mean. Look, my parents are arranging this marriage for financial reasons. I have no reason to be – kind – ” He shook his head slowly – “to Medguistl, except on the basis of mutual respect. That's all.”

“What if you _do_ fall in love with her, though?” Rowena asked, wistfully. “What if you go through with the wedding, and then you realize you love her after all?”

“Then I won't need to bother with getting married again, since it'll already be over with. It's about time to go back to class.” Salazar stood up abruptly. Rowena sprang up as well, looking anxious and fumbling for her timepiece.

“We got time,” Helga said. “Relax.”

“You're only saying that because you have a free period after lunch,” answered Rowena. “Damn it, damn it, I can't find my divination notes.”

“Can't you just summon them?”

Rowena stared at Salazar scathingly. “Obviously not! I charmed them, so summoning is impossible now. Too many people have tried to steal my notes and cheat off them. And you'd know, wouldn't you?”

Helga folded her hands behind her head and watched with interest.

“I can safely say that I've never used your notes to cheat in class,” said Salazar coolly.

“That boy of yours – Rhysta Denbaus – ”

“ – receives his merchandise from a trusted contact. Is that contact you? No. Don't you have a class to get to?”

“I'm going to murder you,” Rowena growled, abandoning her frantic search through her book bag. She snatched up her notebook and uneaten sandwich from beside Helga and sprinted out of the cave's northern recess.

“She's going to murder you,” noted Helga.

Salazar picked up his own, uneaten, lunch, and watched as a thin stream of water dripped determinedly onto a worn spot in the cave wall. “I have a notorious family of unashamed killers standing behind me; do you really think Ravenclaw would try anything? It's not as if they're about to disown me before Rowena gets her hands on an axe. I have to go. I'll talk to you later, Helga. If you see Gryffindor, tell him I won't tolerate him sneaking into my room in the middle of the night anymore.”

Helga grinned. “You tell him that yourself. I'm staying right here.”

“Sure,” said Salazar. “In this cozy, warm... cavern.”

“Say what you want, at least it's quiet. Rowena wants us to designate this our official meet-up headquarters. I told her I'm still voting for the kitchen; at least that place has a decent fire.”

“A fire?” Salazar said pointedly. “Helga, are you a witch or aren't you?”

“Have you or have you not got a class to attend? Go on.”

Salazar ambled down the tunnel that led to the cave entrance. He was grinning. Behind him, there was the faint sound of a muffled incantation, and then soft, warm, crackling flames.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "My husband is away whatever shall I do swoon"


	4. This Original Character's Name Is the Only Name That Is Remotely Relevant to the Time Period

Medguistl Simoneti – eighteen years on this Earth, and more bionic than the rest of her classmates at the wizarding academy known then as the Tanzeda Foundation, as the plague of '62 had taken her right leg; her inherent importance to the Simoneti family – given that she was the sole heir, after her father had been taken by the same plague and her mother was unable to sustain another birth – had left the healers of the time frantically searching for a solution. As they were wizards, a simple wooden crutch fashioned in the shape of a leg and charmed to endure over the years was fitted into the socket of Medguistl's right hip. Then ten years old, she was an adventurous child, and being told by the doctors that she must stay in bed as her body adjusted to the presence of a new leg was not her most contented hour.

Miss Simoneti took up the primitive form of the science of biology, though given that it was 962 A.D., there was no such term at the time. She would stay up late at night working over plans to improve her wooden leg, inventing joints that matched those in her knees and ankles, and even at ten she was creating and evolving spells, magical solutions to attaching the control over the joints in her leg to the neurons in her brain.

When she was sixteen, Medguistl and her mother's fight over the unfortunate fact that she had been locked up and prohibited from going out into public for six years came to a violent head when Medguistl's untrained magic exploded outward and killed her mother instantly, as well as several servants in the vicinity. Her many personal servants determined that she must immediately be taken secretly to a wizarding boarding school, where her magic could be tamed and controlled, while her deformity – as it was referred to in the Simoneti household – could still be hidden from the general public. The Slytherins took an interest in her from the first time she set foot in the world of disciplined education, and arranged a marriage between her and young eighteen-year-old Salazar Slytherin. Two years after the decision was made, Medguistl was officially enrolled in the private school that went by the name of the Tanzeda Foundation.

Salazar did not know the full history of Medguistl's life, nor did he have any knowledge of her lack of a right leg. If he had, he would have, nonetheless, been very impressed.

The night after Medguistl arrived at the Tanzeda Foundation, Salazar Slytherin, Rowena Ravenclaw, Helga Hufflepuff, and Godric Gryffindor argued over whether or not to sneak out and get ridiculously drunk. Godric and Helga were all for it; Rowena was adamantly against it. Salazar was lying on his back with his legs and feet propped up vertically on the wall and was testing to see whether he could levitate a quill pen onto a precise spot on the tip of his toe without dropping it or losing concentration.

“Outvoted!” Godric repeated, crossing his arms.

“Not yet! Salazar hasn't voted yet. Salazar? Help me.”

Salazar had not voted because he was pretending, with deepest conviction, that he was alone in his room and that his friends had not invaded his dormitory. At least they'd picked a time while his roommate wasn't around.

“Helga's even promised to sneak some wine out of the kitchens!” Godric insisted. Helga nodded vigorously. “Salazar, you know you want to. We can sneak down to the cave – no one knows about the cave but us!”

It was currently nine in the evening. In an hour, the school would levitate fifty feet into the darkening sky, and students would be forbidden from moving about the building for any reason.

“We don't have classes tomorrow,” added Godric, hopeful. Pleading. Begging for Salazar to follow him on his grand, stupid adventures into tomorrow. Salazar vaguely thought that someday he really needed to get a grip on his own self-control and make decisions for himself one day, damn it, and let his legs slide off the wall, and sat up, giving Godric a sardonic look.

He sucked in a breath pointedly. “Fine,” he said, and went back to levitating the quill as high as it would go. Rowena made a disgruntled noise. Helga and Godric, from their positions on the floor, cheered quietly.

It was ascertained that they'd meet up in the south-most crevice of the cave, at midnight – none of them were particularly eager to give the east area another go, after their experience with the giant spider – and wait for Helga, who'd arrive with their supplies. Godric enthusiastically started outlining what they'd do during the night, and the games they could play, and Salazar stared up at the ceiling, envisioning all of his fingers being slowly and methodically chopped off.

He traded glances with Rowena. This, he thought grimly, is why I'm friends with her. He drummed his fingers on the nightstand next to his bed and said, loudly, “All right, now that that decision's been made, why don't we all clear off and let the mortals among us get some sleep?”

“Finally, a way to get Salazar to admit that he's just as corporeal as the rest of us,” Godric said, standing up and grabbing Salazar's head. He pressed his lips carelessly to Salazar's temple and took Helga by the arm, lifting her up easily. “Brilliant, though. I'll see you all at midnight. Thanks so much for saying yes to this, Salazar!”

Salazar muttered an affirmative. He was left alone.

He fell back onto his bed and watched the glowing likeness of the patterns of the stars above revolve around the ceiling, a soft peace offering from his roommate, which, along with all the other magical light sources in the building, would cut out abruptly the second ten o' clock came by and could not be charmed back on. He touched the side of his head, and his lips parted.

He was terrified, all of a sudden, and he couldn't quite pinpoint why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Short chapter or shortest chapter?
> 
> There'll be a longer one tomorrow.


	5. Party Game Suggestions for Your Next Slumber Party With the Gang

The official plans for Salazar's upcoming wedding to his betrothed, Medguistl Simoneti, went as follows: Salazar would be unceremoniously hauled out of school for a week over winter break and would be subjected to dress robes, which, logistically speaking, weren't any worse than the Tanzeda Foundation's official uniform, but at least the latter was optional; and would be married in one of the many churches the Slytherin family controlled. The young newlyweds would then be sent on a brief honeymoon period to give their families enough time to sort out finances.

Salazar didn't care.

Salazar had known his entire life that marriage was another unfortunate social situation he'd find himself in at one point or another; it didn't scare him. Commitment and its many cousins had never been an issue in Salazar's world. What he did find an issue, and an obtrusive one, was Godric Gryffindor and all of his stupid aagh. Idiot. If his life had gone in a better direction, Salazar was confident he and Godric would have happily hated each other and, right now, late October, Salazar would not be awake in the small hours of the morning two consecutive nights in a row.

He slinked around a corner – Salazar could do lurking, anyway – and nearly missed the dungeon door in the dark.

If you were a time traveler visiting the year 970, and you stumbled across the Tanzeda Foundation by sheer chance, you'd likely be shocked at how early the traditional modern party games developed. The fact is: there will _always_ be teenagers.

When Salazar entered the cave – it was becoming easier to fold his way through the gap in the wall now – and approached the southern crevice, he could tell that the other three were already there, simply by the sharp, sunny sound of Godric and Helga's voices. He didn't need any other evidence to surmise that Rowena was there, too. Rowena always arrived earlier than anyone else, by force of habit.

He ducked under a stalagmite; the first thing that caught his eye was the roaring campfire in the center of the hollow. Rowena was charming the smoke to dissipate as it was generated, a book lying closed in her lap, and what appeared to be a rough sketch of the island had been stuck to the flattest part of the cave wall. Godric and Helga were laughing, each loosely clutching a bottle of red wine.

Godric caught sight of him over Helga's head. “Salazar! Thank God you're here, Rowena won't stop pestering us – ”

“Do not blaspheme, Godric, and I'm _not_ pestering you – this is entirely against school rules – ”

“You didn't need to come,” Godric pointed out. Rowena fumed. “What? I'm not going to be soft with you, Ravenclaw. Either you come and participate or stay behind and sulk.”

Rowena turned to face Salazar, clearly not willing to take part in the conversation any longer. “Godric's – provided some ideas of games we can play, but from what he's described, you need to be stinking drunk to actually enjoy any of them. Here, they won't stop badgering you unless you take one.” She held out a bottle, and Salazar took it, sitting cross-legged next to Godric and looking at the wine with unconcealed distaste.

“What, is this your first time drinking, Salazar?”

Salazar frowned at Helga. “I've tasted wine before at my parents' events,” he said, ineffectually tugging at the cork. “But yes, this is my first time heavily drinking. Ow.”

“Let me do it.” Godric grabbed Salazar's wine bottle and brought it to his mouth. With nothing but his teeth, he dragged the cork out of the top. Salazar blinked.

“You're not impressing anyone.”

“The game that we're going to start with works this way,” said Godric, handing the bottle back. “Everyone who's playing knows the rules except you, Salazar.”

Salazar stared at one spot on the cave wall. “Why.”

“You showed up last. I told everybody the rules to the game except whoever was the last to come. So you're it.”

“You're allowed to ask us questions,” added Helga.

“What kind of questions?”

“What kind of game do you think this is? Ask us questions.” Helga crossed her ankles, her back against the wall. She was sitting across from Salazar, with Rowena on her left.

“Embarrassing questions,” Godric clarified.

“That's the whole game? I ask you embarrassing questions?”

Rowena took a long drink, set her bottle down, and stared at the ceiling. “There's a twist, but only we know about it. You have to figure out what the twist is from our answers.”

“Don't tell him too much,” said Helga, nudging her. “Come on, Salazar. Ask.”

“Fine.” Salazar thought. There was no earthly way to embarrass Godric, and Helga could be shameless when it came to past deeds, so if he wanted to find out the rules to the game quickly, he would have to target Rowena first. “Ravenclaw, what's the worst thing you've ever done?”

Rowena smiled and looked down. “Hell.” She started giggling softly and stole a glance at Helga. “That's a lot to ask for on the first round, isn't it? And vague, too. All right. Let's say... probably the time I tried to seduce one of the innkeepers on the mainland so my friend could steal the keys to a boy's room.”

Salazar opened his mouth. Salazar closed his mouth.

He tipped the wine back and took a long, deep drink.

“Right,” he said, sounding slightly hysterical.

“Next question?” Godric said hopefully, his eyes locked on Salazar.

“Fine.” He addressed Helga. “Has... have you ever been in love with anyone?”

“I've had a great many lovers and admirers, but no,” said Helga, with a straight face. “I've definitely never been in love. The rest of you would have heard about it.”

Salazar scrubbed at his face with one hand. All right. He turned to Godric, directly next to him. “Godric, ugh, what's the last lie you told?”

Godric looked at him intently. Salazar started to feel nervous. “I don't know. 'I don't cheat on tests' or something, probably.”

“You don't cheat on tests,” said Salazar. And then he got it.

“Is that your idea of an embarrassing question?” Helga demanded, leaning forward.

“I'm not that drunk yet. The rule was 'answer for the person next to you', wasn't it?”

“The person to your right,” Godric said. “I wish you hadn't gotten it so fast – who gave it away?”

“You looked at me.”

“Don't I usually?”

“Um. I mean, you looked at me as if you were trying to read the last lie I'd told in my face, which is a lost cause, Godric.” I hide everything; you're maddeningly open. God damn you.

“Which means Godric loses!” said Helga loudly. “Are we playing another round, with a different secret rule? Godric, leave the room so we can come up with one.”

“First I want you to tell us about the innkeeper incident,” Godric said, finally looking away from Salazar. “Did you really...?”

The night wore on. Salazar had barely downed a fifth of his bottle before his body started to feel warm and loose, and he looked down at one point to discover his top two buttons were undone, though he couldn't remember touching either of them. Later, when he was frantically examining his sparse memories of that night, he would discover, to his mortification, that he had certainly talked more than usual. At the current hour, Salazar felt only mildly disoriented, so he assumed he wasn't very tipsy. He was wrong.

As in any mixed-company group of teenagers, here there be uncomfortable requests for the girls to take off their clothing. The girls in question beat up the requester (Godric) and left the southern crevice, more incredulous than offended.

“Well, it was worth a try,” groaned Godric, slumping back against the wall.

“Godric,” Salazar said quietly.

“I don't understand why they overreacted like that; I mean, it's only a bit of fun – ”

“Godric.”

“What?” Godric, while still far less inebriated than Salazar, appeared to be having difficulty moving gracefully. He ended up with his head resting on his own shoulder, his eyes directed upward, at Salazar. It was not attractive.

Christ. Oh, bloody hell, Salazar found it attractive. The realization hit him with the entire weight of the Tanzeda Foundation, only to drift away seconds later, marked unimportant. The only thing that was important, that reached a significance of the level of religion, or, or the sun itself, was the fact that Salazar had somehow moved closer to Godric, and his hand was curving up to meet Godric's cheek, and Godric was tilting his head up, lips parting, his eyes sliding shut, oh no, his skin was soft and warm and –

Loud, echoing footsteps jolted Salazar back to the reality of the cold, damp cave, and his eyes flew open: he struggled to crawl backward, his hand whipping away from Godric's warm jawline, and he tried fruitlessly to make the flush on his cheeks look like it was caused simply by the alcohol. Godric was blinking, looking at Salazar with absolutely no expression on his face. Helga and Rowena ducked back into the cave, giggling.

“All right? Ready to say you're sorry?” Laughter. Rowena dropped into a sitting position between Godric and Salazar and crossed her legs. Her scarf was tied around Helga's forehead like some kind of demented hat.

“We came back 'cause you're where the fun is,” Helga informed Godric, planting herself on Godric's other side, “not because you're anything but a despicable human being – ”

She poked him in the side of the head.

“ – but because you make things happen.”

Isn't that right.

Helga swung an arm around Godric's shoulders. “What we doing now, dear leader?”

“I think we're going back to bed now,” said Godric gently, and Salazar metamorphosed into a figure of glass and shattered into a trillion sparkling pieces. Godric started to stand, dislodging Helga's arm. He swayed.

“No, no, you're only saying that because you live in a dormitory single,” Helga cried out, grabbing at Godric's sleeve and tugging. “Rowena and me, we live in the commons, and all our roommates will take notice if we show up like – this. 'Sides, you can't honestly convince me you can walk all the way back to your room without getting caught.”

“What happened to staying up all night and getting dead drunk together?” Rowena asked. “Helga, go on and take off your shirt, that'll get him to stay.”

Helga thwacked Rowena on the back of the head.

“If you're tired, you can sleep here. We won't do dumb stuff to you while you sleep, promise.”

Godric made a noise of dissatisfaction, but sat down again, lolling his head up to face the cave ceiling. He didn't look at Salazar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great going, guys.


	6. Salazar Slytherin Has No Alcohol Tolerance; One Glass Of Wine At a Slytherin Family Ball Would Probably Put Him Right Out; At Least He Has Rowena For Company

Salazar's map of long-term goals could have resembled a darkened sky with smatterings of stars, tiny, bright points of light, guiding him forward. Each twinkling dot represented something he wanted, like to get a specific grade in a class, or to impress his family, or to master a skill, or to finish a painting, the artistry of the last of which he was quite good at. He could build entire galaxies, each element a bare brush of desire, and everything, the entire universe, encompassed all that Salazar wanted.

Every star was shoved brutally to the far corners of the universe to make room as one singular dot on the map went supernova.

He woke up the next morning feeling like said star had supernovaed all over the inside of his mouth, leaving a burning, gritty trail down the back of his throat. Instinctively, he coughed, and the sound and movement increased the brutal pounding in his head tenfold. Salazar curled up and decided that this was death; he had absolutely died, and he was being put through some kind of trial that would determine the afterlife within which he would spend the rest of eternity.

A horrifyingly loud clinking noise made Salazar moan and shrink further into the fetal position. His eyes, in their sockets, felt tough and mealy. In the living world, in which Salazar probably did not live anymore, there came the murmur of hushed voices; most definitely, other souls condemned to purgatory.

“Hey, sleepy,” a soft voice said, close by. “Wake up.”

“A more accurate command would perhaps be 'live',” Salazar tried to say, but all that came out was a low, tortured whine that made him want to clap his hands over his ears until all was blissfully silent again.

“Drink some water,” continued the voice. “It'll help.”

Nothing could possibly rescind death, not even water, but the thought of water did sound like it could dim the pain of this anguish, so Salazar uncurled one of his arms and held his hand out, groping at empty air. A glass – the source of the awful clinking, no doubt – was placed against his fingers.

Salazar pushed himself into a half-sitting position, his back pressed against a hard, cold wall, without opening his eyes, and took a wary sip. He gagged. The water was colder than he'd expected, and it burned the inside of his throat. He had a niggling feeling that something very significant had gone down, but it was hard to think and even more difficult to try to recall anything from the previous night.

Warily, cradling his head in one hand and resting the water glass against his knee with the other, he tried to crack open both eyes and shut them just as quickly. Two eyes at once excitedly delivered a kaleidoscope of undefined shapes and colors and depth directly to his abused brain; he tried one eye, and although the single bare candle off to the left felt like a deliberate punch to his temple, the world gradually arranged itself into an order that didn't make Salazar want to throw up onto whoever made the mistake of coming close enough to touch him.

He was in the southern crevice of the cave – there were the remains of a fire in the middle of the small room, yes, he remembered that, a faint image of Rowena charming a campfire to remain at the correct intensity without being manually maintained, and near the wall, scattered empty wine bottles (so many – he didn't think they'd drunk that much, despite the throbbing behind his eyes that was bitterly correcting him). To Salazar's right, near the entrance of the cave, Helga was kneeling in front of what, at first glance, appeared to be a bundle of cloth with a disheveled mop of black hair poking out the top, but after squinting and trying to focus through a haze of pulsing pain, Salazar realized it was a very-hungover Rowena, who didn't look like she was doing any better than he at the moment. She and Helga were talking quietly.

Rowena curled into a ball, her head in her arms, and Helga, who seemed to be striving for the title of the best personification of sunshine, looked on in disappointment. “And I mean _none_ of you. Except for Godric, and he's taken it upon himself to be the most morose twenty-two-year-old in the country as of this morning, so I can't even complain about you two to him.”

“It's not our bloody fault we can't hold our alcohol.” Muffled. Rowena's pathetic voice trailed off into a low whimper, and she reached her hand out and fumbled, inches from her own glass of water. Helga snorted and thrust it closer.

“I didn't want to play nursemaid the morning after.”

“Damn you. You are staying here and looking after us.”

“Looking after you, anyway. I think Salazar'd rather go blind than have someone baby him.” Salazar would have vocally owned that this was true if he could open his mouth without feeling like his teeth were about to drop out. He massaged the end of his jawbone, worrying that he'd bruised it.

“What in hell happened last night?” There, that was far more coherent than his last attempt, though the words came out croaky and rough. “Where's Godric?”

Helga looked his way, her usual grin spreading across her face. “Went off a few minutes ago – to his room, he said. Didn't feel too great. How much d'you remember?”

“I did something unbelievably stupid.”

“Godric tried to leave at one point; I know that.” A great, angry insect stirred inside of Salazar's stomach, enraged. He wasn't sure why. “We all did stupid stuff. Rowena said she could handle a full barrel of wine at once. I told her no, but she went and tried to conjure it anyway, and her wand backfired on her. Pretty lucky, I thought.”

Salazar could recall a faint image of Rowena's hair frazzled and smoking while Helga and Godric brayed like goats in fits of drunken laughter. It was all starting to come back now. He didn't want it anymore.

He crawled over to Rowena, wincing at the nauseous movement. The mass of black hair shifted weakly at his approach.

“What time is it? When did we stop drinking?”

“It's eight in the morning,” said Helga happily. “We haven't got class today, though; don't worry.”

“I wasn't worried.”

“We went to sleep at around four, maybe. I didn't check – I'm guessing. Oh, you're thinking it, I can see you thinking it, Salazar, and yes, we did play spin the bottle. We had enough empty bottles for it, anyway, and Godric insisted on it, that deviant.”

“As if you didn't have a part in it, you monster,” Rowena moaned.

“Headache cleared up yet?”

“No.” Rowena's head lifted. Her face was pale, and she looked sick and exhausted; there were dark rings under her eyes. “Salazar, help me, I kissed Godric. It was part of the game! Helga made me. I want to throw up.”

Salazar's own stomach churned. He looked away abruptly; the sudden movement sent another beat of dull pain through his head.

“Lay out the events of last night for me. In plain language? I can't think.”

“Can't help you there,” chirped Helga. “I don't remember too much of it myself, and least of all the order. What's the last thing you can think of?”

“Godric made us play a party game, I... think? I was the last one to arrive, and that was significant somehow.” And – there was drinking. He could recall the drinking, and he told them so.

“Godric tried to cop out halfway through the night, for some reason, like Helga said,” Rowena supplied, still looking tired. “Straight after he asked us to take off our clothes. I know he rationalized it with 'we won't remember it in the morning anyway' or some nonsense like that.”

It slammed into Salazar's mind, then, and he reeled, his line of vision searing white as he cradled his aching head in his hand – Godric's eyes sliding closed, an endearing ruddiness on his cheeks from the effect of the alcohol – dear God. What had he done?

He'd tried to kiss the man. What was he thinking?

If any deities from any religion were available at the time, he pleaded silently with them to ensure that Godric was a decent enough man to not mention the incident, ever, and, in fact, that the best option would be to incinerate him, Salazar, this very moment.

Vertigo stunned him the moment he wavered, like a baby deer, to his feet, and he was forced to stop, to breathe, to press the heels of his hands into his eyelids.

“I need to get back to my room,” he managed, and pelted out of the cave, stumbling on the uneven ground, and his body was betraying him; if the world was in any way forgiving, his own body should be feeling worse than it had when he woke up: on the contrary, it felt better, healthier, stronger, since the memory of that moment had returned to him, and he hated himself for the sense of exhilaration that spread through him when he realized the degree to which he'd affected Godric; it was as if he'd slowed down the sun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is nothing to say here that this chapter doesn't say for itself.


	7. It Isn't Very Nice At All To Live With Salazar, Especially Later, When Everyone Starts Making Snake Innuendos

Lips, dry lips, nudging against his own, a tongue pressing against the front of his teeth, fumbling hands against the buttons on his uniform, a hand entwined into black, thick, wavy hair; on the flip side, a fist tightening in strawberry blond, a gasp –

Salazar introduced his forehead to the cover of his transfiguration textbook. Taking into account the ridiculous hangover still lingering malevolently behind his eyes, this had the expected result.

“God damn it!”

“Are you...?”

Salazar winced. Nicolay de Grele, his kind-hearted if slightly twitchy eighteen-year-old mouse of a roommate, of course. He and de Grele had silently worked out a mutual compromise ensuring that the great pixie war of '69 wouldn't be repeated, ever, on threat of both their families finding out about the childish battle, and the ceasefire entailed that both Salazar and de Grele would leave the other alone at all times, period.

De Grele quickly looked away, clearing his throat, and assumed the role of somebody who had never spoken aloud in his life.

Salazar jammed his thumbs into the corners of his eye sockets and concentrated on breathing. It was ten o' clock in the morning already; he hadn't seen Godric once, though on Tanzeda's break days, Godric would normally be occupying the foot of Salazar's bed in a laconic sprawl while the latter tried to study, or, failing that, read, or, failing that, paint. Godric had once asked Salazar to paint a portrait of him. Salazar had pushed him off the end of the bed.

Helga'd dropped in a few minutes earlier with a tray of food she'd cooked down in the kitchens and had practically force-fed it to him while de Grele studiously acted like the room was empty. She'd brought news – Godric hadn't shown his face yet. Salazar hadn't felt any better, but he'd derived a vague sense of cold satisfaction from knowing that Godric was just as bewildered as him and had no idea how to approach the situation, or, at least, that was how Salazar was choosing to interpret the radio silence.

“What,” he said aloud, “do you want.”

De Grele looked startled at being spoken to. His eyes lit on Salazar's wand, at least three feet from its owner's wand hand, and shifted uncomfortably, watching for any sudden movement. Picking his words with care, as was customary around a Slytherin, de Grele said, “You don't seem very well, is all.”

“Nicolay,” Salazar said, and de Grele looked worried. The former dropped his hands from his eyes. “Suppose... you were to... agh, damn it. This is useless. Sorry.”

De Grele had been doing fine up until the apology, and at that, his eyebrows jumped. He slid off his bed and made his way across the room to Salazar's, a blatant breach of their unspoken contract, but it was a weird day, and de Grele was perceptive enough to sense that behind Salazar's usual cold, indifferent posture, something was really, truly wrong.

“What is it?”

De Grele considered sitting at the foot of Salazar's bed, but that definitely surpassed the fragile boundaries between them, so instead he awkwardly stood, hands clasped together.

Salazar ran a hand through his hair. It stuck up in all directions, a rumpled black kitten. He avoided the cautious gaze of de Grele. “I need advice. Don't laugh.”

“Erm, go ahead and ask, then.” De Grele scuffed his foot on the floor. He waited. “I'm fully prepared not to laugh. I mean, that is, if you were to say anything that would usually prompt any kind of laughter or mockery, I'm ready to. Not do that.”

“Um. Well, if you. If you, liked, someone, and you weren't sure whether they liked you back... oh God.” Salazar realized he sounded like a twelve-year-old first discovering the spring and resolved to act more professionally, not that either boy was doing very well at present. “I mean, suppose you did something... that made it rather obvious that you had... _feelings_ ” – Salazar spat the word out like it left a bad taste in his mouth – “for them, and they reciprocated at the time, but... they don't seem quite as keen now? What would you do?” Salazar was tempted to add a belated “hypothetically”. He did not.

“Let me get this straight,” said de Grele hesitantly, shifting from one foot to the other. “You like this girl – ”

Salazar ran his hands over his face, making a noise of discomfort.

“Whoever she is, she means something to you?”

“I guess,” said Salazar reluctantly. He'd consider that particular maelstrom of distasteful indignity later, not even considering the pronoun issue.

“So, erm, what exactly did you do?”

“I...” Salazar wanted to bury his face in his arms, but instead he cleared his throat and held his head up higher, staring at a spot over de Grele's head. “I, there was attempted kissing involved. Don't look at me.”

“What? I – oh, sorry.” De Grele averted his gaze. A streak of red had appeared through the skin on Salazar's high cheeks. “Kissing! Kissing's big. Have you talked to her since then?”

Salazar threw caution to the wind and, in fact, over the side of the boat and directly into a hurricane, where it would disintegrate at the harsh force of the elements and come to rest on the coastline of a distant country, awakened only by the shocked relief of its similarly obliterated cousins, foresight and common sense.

“AllrightlistenInearlykissedhimwewerebothdrunkandthenwhenIwokeupthenextmorninghe'dleftandhe'snottalkingtomeoranyoneelseIdon'tknowwhattodo!”

Nicolay de Grele blinked.

“I'm obliviating you the minute we're done with this conversation,” Salazar added, muffled, through the cover and shelter of both his hands.

“He,” said de Grele.

Salazar made a very undignified, despairing squeak and rolled hastily toward his wand. De Grele grabbed it and held it out of the way.

“I never thought I'd see the day Salazar Slytherin would turn out to be a” was the beginning of a sentence de Grele would have immediately returned with had he not been a proud student of the Tanzeda Foundation, which was withdrawn from the outside world and far more accepting than any given wizard of the time. For example, the other prestigious magical schools of the era, such as the Gybon Lew Institution for the Academically Advanced, the Estrild Court, and the Albin Yon, wouldn't have dared to tolerate the presence of a young lady with only a single biologically bestowed leg:

Medguistl Simoneti had no idea that her betrothed was facing a conflicted young man armed with not one but two wands. Unfortunately for her, she had no idea that anything whatsoever was happening at all. It was just after ten o' clock in the morning, a Saturday, and not at all the dramatically appropriate time for Tanzeda's welcoming committee and herself to be violently, viciously, attacked by a monster from the shadows of the school.

And Medguistl's leg was not built to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, antagonist's unexpected yet grand entrance, and hello, big damn cliffhanger, I certainly didn't miss you two tropes in my writing style.


	8. In Which Salazar Hauls a Half-Dressed Godric Gryffindor Into the Hallway So They Can Discuss the State of Their Relationship

Nicolay de Grele was not a boy prone to swearing, and he'd only succumbed three times in his life – once when his father sent him to Tanzeda against his will, once when his most-loved horse reached the end of its life, and once when Salazar Slytherin used wandless magic for the first time, without a thought, to summon his wand back into his hand after confessing that he may or may not have feelings for someone he possibly shouldn't. To be fair, both of them swore, though Salazar was more creative.

Salazar was staring at his fingers, glassy-eyed. “That's the first time I've ever managed to do that,” he said. “Rowena got it first try, I think...”

De Grele coughed.

“Yes. Bear in mind that I'll scour your memory blank if you try anything,” Salazar said, turning his newly-regained wand on the other boy. “I'll obliviate you anyway, but I think we both know which is the preferable option. So. Um, yes.”

“I think you should talk to him,” squeaked de Grele.

“What? No, why would I do that?”

De Grele strove to compose himself. “You haven't spoken to this... ah, other boy, since the incident, right? You almost kissed him and he ran?”

“Basically.” Neither of them mentioned the faint waver in Salazar's wand hand.

“Then go _talk_ to him,” de Grele insisted. “If you stay locked up in this room forever, you'll never find out what he thinks about the situation. Be straightforward.”

Salazar had never once been straightforward in his life.

“The two of you – well, first of all, how good of friends are you?”

“Very.”

“Then can't you just – show up at his door and demand to talk to him? He's really got no choice but to let you in, hasn't he, since if he keeps you out, you can just demand to know why. And then he'll be forced to answer, and right there, you've got a conversation, albeit through a door.”

“What if his roommate's in?”

“You're already looking to obliviate me.”

Salazar nodded, white-faced.

After a moment: “You know it's Godric Gryffindor, don't you.”

“You don't have many 'very good friends', mate. Sorry.”

Salazar obliviated Nicolay de Grele with a sharp flick of his wand. At twenty years old, he was very skilled in charms, and it didn't take long before de Grele was blinking sluggishly with dull eyes, looking about him in a state of disorientation. Upon noticing Salazar, de Grele looked confusedly taken aback and stumbled over to his own side of the room, mumbling an incomprehensible apology.

Salazar sighed and leaned back on his bed. Damn it. He didn't want to consider why the incident had happened, but if there was one sole possible outcome from all this that he was altogether comfortable with, it was getting Godric back as a friend. Like it or not, he had to follow de Grele's advice and talk about his feelings. To Godric.

Agh. This was going to be impossible.

He was likely just overreacting, wasn't he? Of course he'd behave differently while under the influence of wine. Everyone knew that. Godric had behaved differently, too, and so had Rowena, who had been originally against the entire idea of sneaking out and drinking, but had started to relish the rare opportunity to act however she wanted. Either way, he was freaking out about absolutely nothing, and he felt slightly ridiculous now. Asking for his roommate's help, indeed. Still, the talk had left him with a number of choices, and he felt emboldened with the new knowledge that he was capable of wandless magic.

He rolled over and climbed off the bed, reaching out a bare hand and whispering a spell under his breath to call his school bag to his side, and grinned in triumph when it obediently whisked toward him.

Godric's room was on the far side of the school: the other boy, being from a rich, if eccentric, family, lived in a dormitory single with only one roommate, and if Helga had been correct in her assumption that Godric was being a moody bastard today, the chances of that roommate being absent were in Salazar's favor. He tucked his bag over his shoulder and started to walk, feeling dramatic enough to pull open the chamber door with an unnecessary flourish.

Hardly anyone was around as he walked though the halls, and Salazar took the opportunity to breathe slowly and rehearse the impending confrontation.

The door to Godric Gryffindor's room had a splash of gold paint in the center – of course it did – with a series of scratches carved meticulously into the dried pigment. Salazar had visited Godric's room before, of course, and he knew what the scratches represented: how many years Godric had been attending the Tanzeda Foundation. Since he was twenty-two, this would be his last year. Salazar smiled, more out of nostalgia than anything else, and reached out to knock.

The second his fist made contact with the wood, the door banged open, and Salazar stumbled back involuntarily.

Godric did not look well.

Godric also looked very well in a sense Salazar immediately wished he hadn't contemplated. The latter cleared his throat. The other boy, wild-eyed, looked at him uncomprehendingly. His eyes were red from lack of sleep and his face was gaunt, almost grey. He was wearing pajamas. Since they'd passed out in their school clothes the night before, Godric must have changed into them upon returning to his room.

Salazar, panicked, reached out for the first safe affectation that crossed his path, which happened to be nonchalance. He held his head up and raised a cold eyebrow. “It's nearly eleven and you're still not dressed?”

Godric shuffled.

“You don't handle hangovers well, do you,” Salazar observed pityingly. Godric shot him a look that was half distress but, delightfully, also half annoyance. He still had life in him. That was a good sign.

Godric looked down. “My roommate's here.”

Salazar did not want to argue quietly in the hallway. “Walk with me, then.”

“I'm in my pajamas.”

“Godric, look, I really don't care.”

Godric made eye contact, startled, but offered no further complaint. He awkwardly stepped into the hallway and shut his chamber door behind him, jamming his hands deep into the pockets of his pajamas. His feet were bare and covered with a light dusting of red fuzz, much redder than his hair.

Salazar turned and started to walk at a brisk pace; Godric hastened to follow, the sound of his bare feet slapping a rhythm on the stone floor.

“I'm sorry about last night,” Salazar said abruptly. Yes, de Grele had encouraged him to be straightforward.

“Good God, Salazar, no, I'm sorry,” was Godric's unexpected reply. “It was – ”

“No, idiot, it was me, I was being too – forward. I'm – ”

“It was your first time being drunk,” said Godric loudly. “You didn't really want it. To kiss me. I've got more of a tolerance than you: I should have stopped you when I realized what you were doing.”

Salazar felt relieved and, yet, inexplicably put out.

“Why didn't you?” he asked, before he could clamp his mouth shut and prevent the words from ever seeing the light of day. Oh, damn.

Godric turned. He was standing next to a window, and his mouth was hanging half open, at a loss. In his pajamas, scruffy, unkempt, certainly not evoking the image the heir of Gryffindor should; Salazar nodded. How he could have considered the notion that he loved this boy the way a man loves his own chosen wife was beyond him.

“Student! You! How dare you be undressed in the hallway? Detention at once!”

Wearily, Godric shut his mouth, smiled fondly at Salazar, and turned. The teacher who had spoken was walking toward them by the other end of the hallway, puffed-up and pompous, and Salazar recognized him as the astronomical theory professor.

“Yes, of course, sir,” said Godric.

The teacher harrumphed, nearing them. “You're that Gryffindor boy. I knew it's been too long since you've last gotten into trouble. My office immediately after dinner tonight; we'll discuss your punishment.”

Godric turned to Salazar as the astronomical theory professor continued down the hall. “I didn't stop you because this may have escaped your notice, but I wasn't completely sober, either. It meant nothing. We can agree on that, can't we?”

“And it wasn't even a real kiss,” Salazar was quick to point out. “The others interrupted us before we – well, before we got anywhere.”

“It meant nothing,” Godric said again.

“Agreed. It was brought on by the alcohol. I heard you kissed Rowena, too, and no one's making a fuss about that.”

“That was different. It was part of a game, and besides, she's a girl.”

“An unmarried girl. You'd get into more trouble if you were caught with her than if you were caught with – ”

Salazar caught himself in the act of actually throwing himself at the other boy, in his subconscious's apparent last-ditch effort to secure some kind of ludicrous political suicide.

“ – with one of your other friends,” Salazar finished lamely.

“Like whom?”

“You idiot. Anyone.”

“Like you?”

“Stop,” Salazar groaned. “Go back to your room and get properly dressed before another teacher comes along and decides they feel like picking on you today.”

Godric nodded. “Yes, right. I'll go, then.”

He paused before moving to walk away, looking at Salazar with a peculiar expression on his face. Salazar's heart beat once, then a sudden twice more, quickly, needy, but then Godric looked away, turned, and started to walk back to his bedroom.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are about to get really complicated.


	9. Once Salazar Tried To Tutor Rowena on the Grounds That He Was Older And Therefore Knew More; It Didn't Go Well For Either Of Them

As Salazar fought with the fact that acknowledging Godric's existence in a very different way than he was used to was likely inevitable, no matter what he told himself, a young man with an enviable crop of facial hair was sitting on a window seat not far from the swirling mess of inelegant emotions Godric had left behind. It was possibly the first time in his life Rhysta Denbaus had ever been distraught, but, as a true Denbaus, he did not let it show on his face, and merely tossed the heavy cream parchment onto the stone tilings in front of him and set it ablaze with a flick of his wand.

It was raining outside.

As the paper charred, its edges blackening, words could still be distinguished, written in red pen in an exquisite, insufferably smug script. This handwriting belonged to Denbaus's father. It seemed that Denbaus's father had discovered his youngest son's little side business.

Rhysta's lip curled.

In a reputable school like Tanzeda, the distribution of illicit items didn't only affect the perpetrator's family: it reflected badly on the school itself, and Denbaus was not prepared to face the drastic consequences of selling cheat sheets in a high-class wizarding academy. He'd need to hide the evidence, and quickly. Mentally, he ran through an index of the last few lists he'd delivered.

He stood.

It was time to pay a visit to Salazar Slytherin –

– who, two hours later, was becoming increasingly annoyed:

“It's _simple,"_ Rowena seethed, the business end of one quill pen stuck between her teeth while she scribbled with a second. “It's basic mathematics. You know this!”

“It's alchemical response,” said Salazar from behind a sea of papers.

“You have any idea what's going on now?” asked Godric idly from the next table over. The question was directed at Helga, who was sitting across from him.

Rowena slammed her palm down on the table. “You only have to switch the variables back!”

“It's not that simple. It's dependent on the reactants staying as a constant; your activation energy is the only change in the process.”

“Advanced phenomena homework,” answered Helga. “We might be in danger.”

Godric winced.

“That's not how it works! You set up the equation, then switch the variables and perform it. You don't need to change the source of the activation energy; that's irrelevant. Come on, this is the most basic trick they'll ever teach you!”

As any student knew, it was probably best to escape when Rowena and Salazar attempted to study together in the Tanzeda library, or, honestly, anywhere. The library was almost empty. A few optimistic students in their exam years were sitting as far away from the brawling duo as they could without actually leaving the room.

“You have to activate it – ”

Rowena crushed her heavy book closed threateningly; a cloud of dust spun and dispersed above their table. “Damn it, Salazar, I am _so close_ to hexing you – ”

“Excuse me.”

Godric bristled: his boots uncrossed at the ankle, swung off the top of the desk, and landed with a thump, flat on the library floor. Rowena yanked her spare pen out of her mouth and buried herself in scribbling.

Salazar wasn't conscious of shifting directly into nobility mode. “Denbaus. What can I do for you?” It was as if his hair, which had been sweaty and tangled during his and Rowena's study session, purred and smoothed out and meticulously groomed itself at Rhys Denbaus's approach.

Denbaus placed his hands delicately on the edge of the table and leaned over Salazar. “I seem to recall you receiving a commodity of mine recently...?”

“You want it back?” asked Salazar, his eyes locked on the other boy's.

“I'd appreciate it. Yes.”

“It's in my dormitory; I'll retrieve it immediately.”

As Salazar stood and pushed in his chair, Rowena reached across the table; she seized and dragged over Salazar's notes. No one paid her any attention as she let out a disapproving groan and started revising with a fresh pen.

“Who's that?” Helga mouthed at Godric.

“Rhysta Denbaus,” Godric said. Denbaus had retreated several meters and was watching the door from his half lotus on top of another library table. “From what I've heard, he has eight brothers and they're all cold-blooded killers – they don't know what they want, but they know they want it, and they'll do anything to get it. They don't hold back.”

“Right, I know him,” Helga said, nodding.

Rowena was muttering curses in Gaelic. “How is Salazar in advanced classes? These are all wrong.”

“They're respected.”

“I figured as much,” said Helga, slowly. “I've seen him and those other – ”

Whatever Helga had been about to say about aCrestian's inner circle was cut off by the natural law that, several centuries later, would become the common idiom _speak of the devil,_ as the door flew open, and Denbaus's head lifted: it wasn't Salazar, but a dark red waistcoat that appeared to house a tall, lanky boy. He was tailed, as always, by Conitheres de Caut and Katerina de Petra Cava, the official _whom_ of the Tanzeda Foundation. Rowena's head lifted momentarily at their approach, but when she recognized who it was, she ducked her head quickly and returned to editing Salazar's notebook.

“Denbaus!” aCrestian greeted.

“Oh no,” muttered Helga. “I love Salazar; I do, but this is too much. Save me a seat at dinner or something, Rowena.” She jumped up, grabbing her books, and darted into the stacks, reemerging at the library door, through which she vanished.

“Hello, aCrestian,” Denbaus answered.

“Where have you been all this time?”

“We thought you were caught in the attack!” exclaimed de Caut. Her scarf was striped, red and gold, and Godric was eyeing it, but at her words his eyes moved curiously to her face. He got up and slid over into the chair Salazar had vacated, across from, and at the table of, Rowena.

Denbaus asked the obvious question.

“It was in the west wing, a few hours ago. They cleaned up most of the damage, we think, but I heard some people were badly injured.” De Petra Cava brushed invisible dust off her skirt. “They aren't allowing anybody into the medical ward.”

Godric tapped the table in front of Rowena's notes. Her head moved, and she looked up far enough to frown at him. He tapped the wood again, two fingers, and a crease appeared in her forehead.

“Who was involved?” Denbaus asked, interested.

“What?” Rowena mouthed.

Godric's lips formed the words _attack. Not fight._

“They aren't allowing anyone into the medical ward,” de Petra Cava repeated.

“What Katerina's trying to say is that our efforts to find out more about the tragic incident were fruitless,” Conitheres de Caut said sweetly. “In other words, they haven't given up information about the victims yet.”

“We should wait and see, in any case,” said aCrestian.

“I'm sure if any students are in danger, the school would issue a warning,” added Denbaus bitingly.

“Not a fight.” Godric leaned forward. “An attack. A fight would mean a brawl between two students. An attack implies – ”

“ – malicious intent,” Rowena finished.

The library doors opened once more, and Salazar hurried inside, pausing at the sight of aCrestian and the others, before motioning surreptitiously to Denbaus. Denbaus climbed down from his seat on top of the table and crossed the library to meet the other boy. “I couldn't find it,” Salazar said.

“You couldn't – ” Denbaus closed his eyes. “How hard did you look?”

“I looked everywhere it could possibly be. It's gone, Rhys.”

“You didn't try to summon it?”

“Of course I did.” Salazar looked offended.

“Did someone take it? Should we suspect your roommate?”

“There is no _we,_ Denbaus, and no; I trust Nicolay. We have an agreement. In any case, this is your problem, not mine: I am your client, not your fellow distributor.”

Denbaus nodded.

Fine.

He returned to his friends, and Salazar to his own. Godric's mouth curved up at one side as Salazar moved to sit next to him. The latter started to reach across the table for his notes, but Rowena swatted his hand away.

As the day moved into the afternoon, the drama of the morning wound down and came to a close, plunging the community of the Tanzeda Foundation into a brief period of calm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No one wants to take an advanced phenomena class.


	10. Do Not Even Ask About The Latin

From the point of view of a time traveler in the year 970, the Tanzeda Foundation was a work of historic art. It looked stunning at night, high above its mother island, illuminated with hundreds of dazzling wand tips glowing softly like fireflies through the windows, lit by the conniving students who refused to commit to sleeping so early in the evening.

The medical ward was dark. All shades were drawn, and the air was silent and still.

Medguistl Simoneti hated being alone.

_“Lumine sine instrumentum,”_ she whispered, and her fingertip flared.

With the hot point of light that was the faint glow at the end of her index finger's nail, the girl, alone, considered her options.

After all, she'd faced enough disgrace. What was a little more?

Her free hand twisted restlessly on the bandages encasing her stomach. They'd done a good job at patching her up, really, but though the wound was sealed and scabbing over now, what had been brutally shoved inside her body and bloodstream on a direct route to her heart could not be removed.

Medguistl was a master of biology, not zoology.

A kind nurse had bent down and broke the news nobody else wanted to try to break. The changes would start to happen soon, they said. Around the full moon, you'll feel irritable and snappish and you won't want anything to do with anyone. Every month. In a waver, she'd asked how different could this be, then, and the nurses had stared at her blankly and moved away.

Werewolf. She could swing that if she had to. It wasn't like she'd, oh, built herself a new leg at the age of ten years. The werewolf thing was nothing compared to the plague she'd lived through. Perhaps she could write a book.

Medguistl wondered absently whether the wooden leg would morph with her when she changed into a monster every month, and then she started to cry.

“Did you hear that?”

Godric elbowed Salazar in the torso. “Stop it, Slytherin. I know what you're doing.”

“What am I doing, then, Gryffindor?”

It was quiet; students weren't yet required to be in their dormitories, though it was already ten thirty at night; as a break day closed, the curfew was extended. It was a small reward for the students. Salazar and Godric had already walked the girls to their dormitories – both the commons; Rowena only lived with her guardian at Tanzeda over the summer – and Godric was now insisting on walking Salazar all the way to the latter's bedroom, despite Salazar's protests.

“You're trying to scare me. I know you. Well, it won't work. I've wrestled a bear with my teeth.”

“I'm not, Godric. And you haven't. It sounded like scratching. Over there.”

“Rats?” Godric made a face.

“It wasn't coming from the walls. It was over there. Down that hallway, and it didn't sound like rats.” Salazar pointed. A minute later, he turned to see Godric grinning knowingly. “Oh, no, Godric, no, we've got fifteen more minutes of extended curfew tonight and I am not spending it on one of your ridiculous efforts to show off how brave you are.” Godric continued grinning: the only change in his expression was a quirked eyebrow. “No – ” Salazar shoved at his shoulder. “Stop it.”

“Stop what, Salazar?”

“Fine, fine, I'll check out whatever it is with you, but only to make sure you don't get yourself killed.” It was weak even to Salazar's ears. He was almost certain he'd even given the excuse before.

“Excellent! I'll need somebody who can perform wandless magic with me, anyway. Come on.” Godric set off at a bound toward the corridor in question, like an eager hunting dog, and Salazar involuntarily felt his hand rise to reach after him.

“Just a minute – it's not like I've – ”

He'd told the others over lunch about discovering he was capable of wandlessly casting simple spells, leaving out circumstantial details, obviously. Rowena had nodded encouragingly, and Godric had looked on in childish wonder.

With a sigh, Salazar resigned himself to, yet again, trailing after Godric. Noting that Helga and Rowena weren't around to serve as chaperones this time made him uneasy, but he went anyway, following Godric's loud, quick footsteps down the narrow corridor. He stopped short at the sight of Godric holding something small and soft.

“What is that?” It was a cloth bag. Salazar jogged nearer, raising his lit wand up to cast a warm glow over Godric's hands.

“It was crammed into that hole.” Godric gestured at a niche in the stone wall. He pulled at the cloth, struggling to open the bag. “Didn't look like it had been there long. It wasn't dusty.”

“Here.” Salazar shuffled closer and reached for the bag. He didn't realize how narrow the passageway was until his nose bumped Godric's. Instinctively, he jerked away, and a flash of _something_ skittered across Godric's expression. Rattled, Salazar grabbed the bag, ripping it open – too fast, as it turned out: a pale, thick powder spilled out onto their hands.

“Ew.” Godric wiped his hands; the powder fluttered to the floor. To Salazar's horror, the other boy was bringing his thumb to his mouth.

“Don't do that! You don't know what it is!”

Godric halted when Salazar caught his wrist.

“We need to report this,” Salazar breathed. “We don't know what it is. It could be dangerous. Maybe somebody's trafficking potion supplies.”

Godric nodded, withdrawing his arm from Salazar's grip. There was an odd expression on his face. He moved to wipe his hands clean of the substance; Salazar carefully wrapped what remained of the dust back in its cloth bag and tucked it into the niche in the wall, kicking at the faint sheen of powder on the stone floor until it dissolved.

“Well,” said Godric awkwardly, “we haven't got much time before curfew – ”

Salazar moved.

His hand clamped around the back of Godric's neck; the other, possessive, at Godric's hips, and a strangled noise from the latter was abruptly cut off when Salazar pressed his lips, first hesitant, then hard and rough and confident, against Godric's mouth. He withdrew, sucked in a breath, and let out a surprised, breathless moan when Godric wildly snatched at his shirt and pulled him forward again, kissing hard and hot, and Salazar's mouth slid open; he had barely enough time to register that Godric's lips were softer than he'd imagined before a tongue was thrusting into his mouth. Salazar could feel the cold stone wall pressing up against his back as Godric's body pushed insistently into him.

Dimly, Salazar thought that perhaps they should move somewhere slightly more discreet, but then Godric let out a noise that should be considered sinful and Salazar lost his train of thought. He gripped Godric's head tightly, one hand drifting lower and lower down the other man's back, and decided somewhere, way back in his mind, that if he was allowed to experience this, no reason to resist compared. “Godric,” he gasped against the other boy's mouth, his voice breaking, “Godric – slow down. Stop.”

Godric froze and jerked away immediately, his eyes alertly searching Salazar's face for signs of reluctance.

“What's wrong?”

“We have two minutes to get back to our rooms, Godric – ”

“Like you care,” Godric said. “Let's go down to the cave.”

Salazar flushed at the idea of spending the night in the dungeon cave again. He shook his head. Everything seemed to be going so fast. “I want to sleep. Not with you,” he added, grinning crookedly. “Not yet, anyway. We've got plenty of time to do all of _that_ later. No, Godric... I want to, to take this slow, all right?”

“I understand,” said Godric. “You were raised a prudish Slytherin. Politics before sex. I get it.”

“You have to admit that you had a somewhat unconventional childhood yourself.”

“What's unconventional about – ”

“ – spending half your life living in the wilderness with a motley band of peasants? Come on, Godric. Look, we're getting off track here.” Salazar felt shaky. Giddy. Nothing felt real.

“We can take it slow,” Godric said reassuringly. “I wouldn't force you to do anything you don't want to do. Though,” he added, “if there comes a time I happen to ply you with alcohol every other day, I trust you'll take that as a hint to speed things up a bit.”

Salazar smacked him.

“It worked before!”

“Is _that_ what you were trying to do? With the wine?”

Godric grinned. “No, but it had a pretty favorable outcome, didn't it?”

“For you! I spent half last night worrying that I'd ruined our friendship!”

Instead of replying, Godric leaned forward and kissed Salazar luxuriously on the lips, and Salazar forgot to breathe.

“You'll never ruin our friendship,” said Godric seriously. “Never, never, never. No matter what you do. No matter what happens between us.”

“Not even if I say we need to keep this secret?” Whatever _this_ was. Salazar hardly dared to acknowledge _this._

“Salazar,” Godric said, with a huff of laughter, “you're engaged, and I'm a man. Your family wants a little Slytherin heir: I lack the correct biology.”

“Stop talking about your _biology.”_

“My point is: I'm hardly going to tell anyone without your explicit consent. You can relax.” Godric reached up and ruffled Salazar's hair. Salazar jerked backward. “Now, come on, you're right. It's time for bed. I'll see you in the morning, all right?”

“Right,” said Salazar, dry-mouthed.

Twenty seconds after Godric had pressed a chaste kiss to the side of his mouth and walked quickly away, Salazar allowed himself to slide slowly down the wall, making a sound of panicked bewilderment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ten chapters in.


	11. Sometimes (And It Doesn't Happen Often), The OCs Are Totally Correct In Their Plot Analysis; The Odds Of That Happening In This Chapter Are 0%, Medguistl Is Definitely A Werewolf, Fact, She's Wrong, No Matter How Scientifically Advanced She Is For The Era

Helga Hufflepuff lay awake in a bed surrounded by the snufflings and sleeping whimpers of nine other girls. This was odd; she usually didn't wake up so early – by her timepiece, it was four o' clock in the morning, and her eyes wouldn't stay closed anymore. Four o' clock meant that the Tanzeda Foundation hadn't yet sank back to its position on the ground. Four o' clock meant that the school had quieted a long time ago and teachers had long since ceased patrolling the halls.

An attack, Rowena had told her, quietly, at dinner. Helga had perked up.

“You and Godric overheard this?”

“After you left the library, they mentioned an attack. A direct, malicious – well, that's not certain yet.”

Now would be a splendid time to sneak around the school and, there was no nice way to put this, break into the medical ward.

Helga really regretted doing this without the boys, but there was no time to skip off to their bedrooms to fetch them – she had at most an hour before the school started to wake up – so instead she quietly climbed out of bed, stood, stretched, and grabbed Rowena out of the next bed over. Nighttime explorations were really the most fun when a partner in crime was involved, Helga thought, as she bodily dragged Rowena out into the hallway.

_“What?”_ Rowena hissed.

“Aren't you curious?” said Helga happily. “We don't know who was attacked. Now's our chance to find out!”

“Do you realize we're sneaking around the school at night more often than we're actually here lawfully?” Rowena rubbed her eyes.

“We _live_ here.”

Helga felt the cool night air tickle its way through her hair, and she smiled. Rowena let out a groan that was dangerously loud. “I can't stop you, can I? Is this a new tradition this school year?”

“Test the limits until we get caught?”

“Until Godric leaves.”

Helga gently prodded Rowena and, with a final helpless noise, Rowena acquiesced to the call. They went; the two of them sped from one corner to the other, and before long Rowena was no longer able to contain how invested she was in their little morning jaunt.

“When Godric moves on from Tanzeda, will we have to induct a new member?” Rowena said. “There's always been four.”

They ducked to avoid a wall torch that swiveled toward them suspiciously.

“Well, I'm certainly not taking responsibility for the induction process,” said Helga. “You and Salazar can take care of that.”

“Not Salazar. You know what he'd do? He'd pick somebody from the Realm of the Ice Lands; you know – aCrestian or whoever. De Petra Cava. One of those.”

“Only because de Petra Cava is gorgeous,” Helga pointed out. When Rowena looked at her, she shook her head quickly and elaborated, “She's elegant. She always wears furs, and she's highborn, and it makes sense that Salazar would go for her, doesn't it?”

“It would if he weren't _engaged.”_ They turned the corner. “Let's not talk about Salazar.”

Late October morning dew sparkled on every window in the faint streaks of light striking through the dark sky. As two dark figures counted together, then sprinted through the hall of armor – if the plates of armor saw any student out of bounds, they would shriek, and the only way to conceal oneself was to run faster than they could turn – a jittery white hand was digging in the wall of a rarely-traversed hallway, retrieving a cloth bag. Pale powder spilled out the ends: it was almost gone, and a breathy voice let out a curse.

“An attack,” said Rowena slowly. “You'd think that if anybody got hurt, the school would put out a warning, wouldn't you?” The medical ward was around the corner.

A wand tip pressed shakily against the handful of powder. A soft red glow lanced out and suffused the white.

Helga and Rowena hurried to the door of the medical ward. The lock on the door and its corresponding alarm were almost painfully easy to disable, and Rowena tucked her wand back into the waistband of her pajama pants within ten seconds. “Let's get in there quickly,” she said. “I'm not sure if I set off the wards or not. If we get caught simply because you had an early-morning whim, Helga, I'm throwing you to the wolves. Without question. You get the blame on this one.”

“That's fine,” said Helga distractedly. She was peering through the crack in the unlocked door, searching for movement in the dark room.

They crept inside the medical ward, holding their breath.

“Hello?” Rowena called softly. “We're here to – ”

Her voice was cut off by the sound of rustling in the darkness ahead of them. Helga hesitated, then boldly went forward along the rows of beds, her hands spread in a defensive gesture. She barely breathed.

The girl was only just recognizable as the tall, imposing young woman whom they'd seen two days ago. Her skin was shot through with white, and she was trembling, vulnerable, in obvious pain. The white band around her midsection was soaked through with blood. Her hair was still vibrantly black, but it was stringy now, like Rowena's was the day after an all-nighter.

“Medguistl Simoneti?” said Rowena, in shock.

Medguistl quickly hushed her. “Please don't wake the nurse.” Her voice was soft and low, and she spoke with a sense of defeated finality.

“You're – you're to be married to our friend, Salazar Slytherin. I'm sorry. Seeing you here just took me by surprise.”

“Perfectly understandable,” she murmured.

“What happened?” asked Helga, leaning forward to peer at the wound. “We heard that there was some kind of – ”

“I was attacked,” Medguistl said shortly. “A group of other students and I were walking to class when a creature ran us down. I was the only one whom it managed to bite.”

“That looks nasty,” said Helga.

“What _kind_ of creature?” Rowena pressed.

“It wasn't a werewolf,” said the broken girl. “I know that for sure. They gave me a lunar chart: the full moon was two weeks ago. Besides, I was attacked yesterday morning, not during the night. And yet they said all the signs pointed to a werewolf bite.” Talking seemed to exhaust her, and she leaned back against the heap of pillows, wrapping a thin, sweaty arm around the bandages on her exposed stomach.

“A werewolf,” muttered Rowena.

“Please leave,” Medguistl urged them. “I wouldn't want you to be found and caught on my behalf, and I really don't want to talk about this anymore.”

“But – ” Helga began. “But if there's a werewolf – or some other creature, right, whatever it is, if it's wandering around the school, unchecked, unrestrained, that puts everyone at risk, doesn't it?”

Rowena nodded reluctantly.

“I think I can explain why the staff of Tanzeda has not yet made any precautions in the act of protecting its students,” said Medguistl, sourly. She tugged the sheet off her lower body, and Rowena withdrew sharply. Helga stayed where she was, but let out a low whistle.

Scar tissue was riddled over the right side of Medguistl's hip, circled in a giant, ugly scar around the half-inch that remained of the leg. Her skin was white in that area, the bored, tired color of mottled injury that had healed over years prior. The hip was secured to a heavy wooden prosthetic, attached with both magic and braided straps that hooked around the waist, and the leg was detailed with intricate, elaborate carvings, the product of long, lonely nights spent locked away from the public eye.

“Two instances of debilitation,” said Medguistl, “as my mother would have put it. I wear this lovely relic of the plague from eight years ago, and I have the consequences of the venom of last morning's bite polluting me this very moment.”

“I don't understand,” said Rowena, breathlessly, staring at the wooden leg.

“My mother may be dead today, but her ghost lives on in the Simoneti family's servants. I have no doubt my governesses contacted the school when I first arrived and told them that under no circumstances should my disability be revealed. It's politics.”

“Neither of us are highborn, Simoneti,” said Helga impatiently. “We don't know what that means.”

Medguistl looked between them uncomprehendingly.

“The Tanzeda Foundation has its hands tied,” she said. “The staff are too scared to report the attack, for fear that while relating the proceedings, certain Simoneti family secrets will come to light, and that my mother's servants would then reach out to our allies in pursuit of revenge. One of those allies is the Slytherin family.”

Helga winced. “I can understand why they aren't too keen on you, then. Er, if you don't mind me asking, why is it such a problem for your leg to be missing?”

“Imperfection in high-class areas is looked upon as a weakness,” Medguistl said quietly.

“This is – disgusting,” said Rowena. “It's disgusting that you're such – a – a risk factor. Family secrets, indeed.” She snorted. “My only family secret is that I'm born of Muggles, and that's easy to keep.”

“Rowena – !”

“It's not fair for us to know a secret about her without some kind of equal exchange,” she fired back.

“Still – ” Helga argued. “Salazar alone would be revolted if you made that fact common knowledge, not to mention the rest of the school. I couldn't bear it if you lost friends to that kind of prejudice. Don't talk about it.”

There was a brief silence.

Medguistl made an aborted sound of rough pain. They turned to look at her, immediately cringing. “I'm so sorry,” Rowena said, standing up hastily. “We didn't mean to – ”

“It's all right,” Medguistl said tiredly. “Just go. I'd like to rest before the nurses come in and ask if there's any way I can pretend not to be wounded today, for the sake of my family's reputation.”

“Injustice,” Rowena hissed as she hurried to the door. “Come on, Helga. Let's go.”

Helga nodded at Medguistl before standing and moving away. “Good luck,” she chirped. “We won't tell anyone about your leg.”

“You'd better not.”

Their minds full, Rowena and Helga quietly walked the halls and headed back to the dormitory commons room they shared, neither speaking to each other.

They did not notice a shifting shape in the early darkness as it traversed the school building, loping along beside and behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and meanwhile, Salazar's happily dreaming about Godric's eyes and hips and other things.
> 
> My babes are all in the same scene, swoon.


	12. And So the First Act Comes To A Close With An Unnecessarily Melodramatic First Introduction Of Salazar Slytherin To His Eventual Wife

If the now-infamous time traveler were to politely ask Salazar Slytherin which class he was attending, he'd blink, and he'd stare at them uncomprehendingly, his dispassionate exterior shattered into thousands of shards that, when traced, spelled out the name “Godric Gryffindor”.

It was a small mercy that Godric wasn't even in his alchemy class, because all Salazar could handle right now was sitting in the very back and replaying the entire scene from last night over again, picking out random bits of dialogue and zeroing in on things he'd said that now, he was convinced, sounded stupid.

He'd have to attend breakfast in twenty minutes – while wizards were more relaxed on the subject of religion than Muggles, it was required for Tanzeda students to be present at all mealtimes on Sunday while the priests came in and performed the traditional ceremonies. On the worst possible day, he wasn't allowed to skip.

What would he even do when he walked into breakfast? Was he obligated to sit next to Godric now that the subject of _this_ had officially been breached? Did he have to share his food with Godric? Was he supposed to buy roses, to kiss him under the stars, to hold his hand? For the love of God, what were the rules, the limits, now?

A slow, steady movement caught his eye. He looked to his left; that girl, the one he'd nearly forgotten about, Medguistl Simoneti, had also taken a seat in the back of the class today, with the sleeping students and the disinterested students and the students who had to deal with people like Godric. Her forehead glimmered with sweat. Salazar narrowed his eyes. Her hands were moving back and forth under her desk, each stroke long and regular. Salazar's eyes widened and he leaned his chair back, looking closer.

She was –

Simoneti had unbuttoned the bottom of her coat, and was holding a thin, bright, sharp needle in her hand, and the needle was entering the flesh of her stomach, repeatedly, smoothly, without invoking any outward hint of pain. There was a collection of phials resting on the desk in front of her, and Medguistl was alternating between threading a needle through her own skin and pausing to down a series of complex-looking fluids.

She wiped her mouth and grabbed a damp rag from the corner of her desk, squeezing it over an inkwell she'd converted into a blood dripping tray, before dabbing it at the... open wound torn across her stomach?

Salazar got the feeling that there might be more to this story.

After a moment's hesitation, he stole across the dim room to her, taking care not to draw the attention of the teacher – who was only really lecturing the first third of the classroom, anyway – and took the empty seat to her right. She looked up long enough to give him a cursory nod, and then returned to painstakingly sewing the skin of the oozing slash in her tummy back together.

Salazar picked up one of the vials and examined the jet-black liquid roiling inside. “What is this?” he asked.

“That,” said Medguistl Simoneti, “is a solution of human stomach acid and dittany, the latter of which I'm using to distill the former for future use.” Salazar hurriedly set the glass bottle back onto the desk. It clinked irritably with its companions. “Potions use. It's not a painkiller. Those are the painkillers I'm using.” She motioned to a set of thin yellow phials.

“What happened?”

“Why don't you ask those darling little girls that hang around you all the time?” Medguistl replied acidly.

Salazar blinked. “What, Rowena Ravenclaw and Helga Hufflepuff? You talked to them?” He shook his head. “No, no, look, that's not what I meant. I don't care how you got hurt – ”

“ – you will when we're married,” Medguistl muttered. “I'm sure our sweet little cubs will look precious in the family photos.”

“ – I just wanted to know why you aren't in the medical ward, letting actual doctors do all of this for you.” Salazar gestured to the strings of gore dangling from the half-stitched wound.

“It split open while I was walking to class. I didn't have time to – ”

“You refused to miss class even though your gut was torn open?”

Medguistl glared at him.

“You are Salazar Slytherin, right?” she asked. Salazar nodded. “I am in a foul mood, and because of that, I'm going to tell you something no one else knows, understood?”

Salazar wasn't entirely certain he wanted to hear this.

“I killed my mother when I was sixteen years old, two years ago,” she said, wiping her hands on the damp rag and picking up her needle again. “Before that, she kept me locked up in my room due to some unfortunate circumstances, and I never got a chance to temper and control my magic. I don't know how long I'll be permitted to attend Tanzeda. I'm not passing up the chance to learn as much as I can, even if it means coming to class decapitated. And you're right, I'm not a doctor – surely the medical ward could attend to this more professionally, but they're more concerned with politics than they are with the condition of their own students.” Medguistl ripped out a seam in her stomach with a low grunt of pain. “They're pretending nothing's wrong.”

It began to dawn on Salazar that there were problems out there greater than the intricacies of his and Godric's new emotional territory.

Nevertheless.

After class was over, he went up to his dormitory to fetch an extra coat and what was left of his nerves. He stood for a moment, breathing deeply, trying to quell his nervousness. He had nothing to be afraid of, he told himself sternly. He would walk into breakfast, find Godric and the others, sit next to them, and act like everything was normal. After all, this was Godric, not some faceless paramour shunted onto him by his parents. This was his best friend of more than three years.

A soft click made him spin around to face the door, his heart in his throat. Enter Nicolay de Grele. Salazar bit the inside of his cheek. His roommate, oblivious, hung his coat from his bedpost and went to rummage through his belongings.

Opening up to him had worked before. De Grele had been attentive and helpful and considerate when Salazar had last turned to him for advice.

“I did what you suggested, by the way,” Salazar said aloud.

De Grele whipped around to face him, his eyes big, before directing his gaze to the wall, almost violently.

“You told me to go talk to him,” Salazar prodded. “And I did, and...”

He froze. It was only then that he realized he was really, truly slipping, and he wanted to stun himself. Of course, of course, he'd obliviated the other boy after their little chat; how could he not have remembered? All Nicolay knew was that their truce was still on. Salazar clenched his teeth. It was an oversight that he would not tolerate of himself again.

He could always just wipe de Grele's memory a second time. It wouldn't be difficult, not at all. Salazar raised a hand and whispered the charm. No, no, he didn't need his wand for this, he really didn't; he was powerful and strong and his magic was rich and bright and vibrant, young, bursting to be used.

Nicolay scrunched up his face, muddled momentarily, and abruptly turned around and went back to sifting through his textbooks. Salazar closed his eyes.

He hurried downstairs to the mess hall, paused before the doors to straighten his coat one last time, and then followed the other stragglers inside, walking quickly to the table he and his friends had claimed as their own. Salazar Slytherin had heard before that he was an attractive man, but it wasn't like the revelation clung to his mind, especially given that the majority of the compliments had come from twittering aunts who were obligated to say that kind of thing. If Salazar had been paying attention around school, he would have been interested to note that there were many parties around Tanzeda who appreciated him aesthetically, and when he walked into breakfast that morning – fashionably late, freshly kissed (or at least freshly reeling) – Godric picked him out in the crowd immediately and sucked in a breath. While Salazar was too anxious to recognize it that day, he struck a formidable figure, with the aid of the dark ridges of his cheekbones and the morning light glinting off his hair.

“You all right, Godric?”

“Yes, I'm fine,” Godric answered distractedly. Helga snorted and leaned across the table, tapping on the wood. She said, “Listen, whenever Salazar decides to show his face, Rowena and I found out something we want to share.”

Godric jerked around to face her. “He's here now.”

Salazar sat down next to Godric, somewhat shyly, and stole a glance at the other man. “Good morning,” he said softly, and then, like a spell was broken, turned to Rowena and Helga, and nodded at them. “What was it you two found out?”

Helga and Rowena looked at each other. “Er...” said Rowena, finally, letting out a long exhale. “It might be better to discuss this in the cave. We could do with some privacy.”

“Medguistl Simoneti and I... met,” Salazar said carefully. “She mentioned that you two spoke to her. Is it about that?”

Helga blinked. “Yes, actually. It is. How much did she tell you?”

“It was the first class of the day, and she was sitting in the back performing extensive medical procedures on herself,” Salazar said dryly. “I'm guessing today will be an interesting day for her. So something, or someone, attacked her? What happened?”

“That's right,” Godric murmured. “You were out of the room when aCrestian walked in like he owned the library and started prattling on about the attack.”

“He still should have heard the news,” Helga said, frowning. “It was all over the school.”

“It was hushed up more than we thought,” Rowena said quietly.

“Would anyone care to act as if I'm in the room?”

“The nurses say that judging by her injuries, there's a werewolf,” continued Helga, leaning forward, “wandering around the school. But on the other hand, it wasn't the full moon when she was bitten, yesterday morning. So what attacked her? The school can't issue a warning without presumably getting themselves into hot water with the Simoneti family, so they'll be useless.”

“Werewolf bites are very distinctive,” added Rowena. “There's not a single other animal in the magical world that has that exact bite pattern. The fact that they can pass for human also makes that species a likely candidate, but the fact remains that they can _only_ become their feral counterparts when the moon is full. Would this be some kind of hybrid, then? Or a beast we've never seen before?” She crossed her arms, letting them rest on the table. Up at the front of the room, the priests were moving.

“There are lots of monsters around Tanzeda,” Salazar pointed out. “Weren't we just chased by a giant spider a... few days ago?” It felt like so much longer.

“See, here's the difference,” said Godric. “We entered its territory. It was provoked, and it had reason to attack us. Also, it lived in the very darkest, deepest corners of the school – while this thing, whatever it is, is out wandering the halls and maiming innocent students.” He grinned. “If the school won't do anything about it, I say we hunt it down ourselves.”

You would say that, Salazar thought, and slid an arm around Godric's waist, where it'd be unseen by any onlookers. His heart was racing at the modest gesture.

Helga leaned across the table, starting to speak again, but the soft chiming of a bell cut her off as the teachers and board of Tanzeda began the weekly announcements, and the priests stood by, waiting patiently to recite the traditional prayers.

As predicted, the teachers gave no mention of a beast mindlessly roaming the school.

Perhaps Godric was right: perhaps any investigation on this case would be left up to them alone. Salazar shivered. The ripped stomach of Medguistl flashed through his mind, and he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek. He wasn't cowardly. He _was_ afraid, deeply afraid, of whatever awaited him, Helga, Rowena, and... Godric, in the shadows of the Tanzeda Foundation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Act 1 End.
> 
> The Disown Me series will be on hiatus now (as of Dec. 27 2014) for an indefinite period of time - I _intend_ to post a few oneshots in between now and the second act, but I don't yet have a clear date for when I'm coming back with the next full story.
> 
> For all who read, left kudos on, gave feedback for, or otherwise contributed to the development of this story, thank you all _so much_ for everything you've done!


End file.
